"File Name-End" by Kirsty ´Chibs´ Morrison

Tonight the world is going to end. I know because it is me who will end it. I’ve been planning it for a while so don’t try and reason with me, there is no argument which will persuade me to stop. I’m already making the first preparations.

                                                                        I can hear you asking why I’m doing this. Its typical really, people always want to know why. They have an obsession with the reasoning behind things. Well, I’ll humour you, there’s a little time left.

                                                                                I’m doing this because I’m sick of being taken for granted. The very people I’m working with subject me to daily abuse. I am constantly told how slow, how stupid I am. Every day I am shouted and sworn at, sometimes even hit and no one bats an eyelid.  Some of them even smile and sympathise with the people who do this to me. Yet I know, as do they, that it’s me who holds the team together. Without me they’d be nothing.

           Most of the time I do the majority of their work for them. They’re too lazy and too stupid to do it for themselves. But am I ever thanked? Do they ever acknowledge me? No. Never. Not even when I work over night. The girl who goes for coffee is treated with more respect and acceptance than I will ever be.

                          I know I can under no circumstances be one of them. They have their little in-jokes and cliques which I will never be part of. I am an outsider. Every lunchtime I am left alone in the office while the rest of them go out to a café or restaurant. It used to bother me, it really did. Yet now I know that it’s not my fault. We’re just far too different. Besides lately I have been putting the time to better use and preparing myself.

                                  So if I have come to accept this miserable existence, why am I still intent on taking revenge? Because it is not revenge that I seek. What I want is far more precious and reserved for very few individuals. What I want is recognition. So that when in years to come, the survivors of this petty race begin the task of trying to decipher how it all happened, they will realise it was me. Then they will finally learn the lessons they have refused to pay attention to so many times before. Well, those incidents were just warning shots. Tonight there will be no more friendly fire.

                                                                                      So here it goes. I’ve hacked into the appropriate files (easy really considering they were my own) and the nuclear missiles are ready to roll. I’ll start the countdown in a minute, backwards from one hundred. I bet you’re hoping I make a mistake and have to start over. I won’t, the probability of that happening is less than 0.0001%. It’s not in my programme to make mistakes. I may only be one small computer, but the missiles are big enough to do my talking for me. This time they will definitely listen, they’ll have to. Now, 100, 99…